


For a Hobby it's Fine

by reserve



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, First Time Bottoming, Identity Porn, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: Jared spent a lot of time researching the sex work community before getting himself into this. It seemed like due diligence, and the right thing to do.





	For a Hobby it's Fine

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this story comes from Belle and Sebastian's "The Boy Done Wrong Again." The lyric goes, " _talking dirty, for a hobby it's fine/so pour another glass of wine/I'll think of England this time._ "
> 
> Many thanks to [eralkfang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eralkfang), [bazanite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bazanite) and [robokittens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens) for assistance and cheerleading. Thank you to Mike Judge for these oddballs.

The Garden Court Hotel is nice. _Very_ nice. For one thing, there’s a garden and an unsurprisingly stunning courtyard, just like the name suggests. For another, Jared enjoys the lobby bar perhaps more than he should. It has this incredible Old World charm he can’t get enough of. It’s the kind of place Bogart and Bacall would go to, he thinks, looking around the dark, wood-paneled room, taking in the leather chairs in British racing green and the tasteful moulding. The artistic rendering of a fairy tale hanging above the bar is a bit much, but he’s not exactly an art historian, and he would never judge—

“Hey.”

Someone taps him on the shoulder. Jared turns, ejected from his reverie, and smiles shyly. He knows some guys like that sort of thing. “Hi,” he says.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“If you’d like, that would be lovely.”

“I’d like.”

Jared smiles again, less of a coy look, more sunnily. He glances down at the cranberry-soda-and-lime he’s been nursing since he got to the bar—never start with alcohol while you’re waiting to be picked up. He learned that on an escort’s blog. “A martini, please,” he says.

As always, situations like this require a somewhat hard and fast route to mild intoxication. It takes the edge off, relieves some of his God-given awkwardness. Lets his hair down, so to speak.

The guy, once he has the bartender’s attention, orders himself a whiskey-rocks—something expensive, Jared notes—and the martini. He even specifies Grey Goose. And he smirks when the drinks are set down, like he’s showing off what good taste he has.

He is… tastefully dressed. A solid six inches shorter than Jared, and blessedly not wearing a hoodie like every other guy in Palo Alto with enough cash on hand to pay for sex. There’s a specific type: not quite at a place where a real high-end escort is financially feasible, but not looking for a quick fuck or hasty blow job in a shitty San Jose apartment complex either. His own apartment is a lot nicer then the moldy roadside motel he lived in way back when, but he still doesn’t like to take his work home. Jared considers tonight’s date as the guy downs his whiskey and quickly orders another. He has frazzled mannerisms, but he still looks about one five million dollar deal away from driving a Tesla. Jared sips his martini with dignity.

“So, um, what do you do?” asks the guy even though he clearly _knows_. Sometimes they do this.

“Finishing up my MBA,” Jared lies smoothly.

“Hmmm.”

“And yourself?”

“I’m a CEO. Tech. You know, the uh. The usual garbage.” He gestures to himself, and it comes across as self-deprecating.

“How fancy,” Jared says. Another smile, shyly averted eyes. They like that too. “Any place I would know?”

“Nah,” says the guy. “Not yet anyway.” His lips tighten into a line.

He’s lying, this much Jared can tell. He doesn’t want to say. Sometimes his date is looking to brag or talk a big game, looking for him to lean in and be impressed. Jared finishes his drink and lays a hand on the man’s sleeve.

“Do you want to get going? Or we could have another?” Honestly, he doesn’t think anyone with such a slight frame should have more than four shots of whiskey, but that’s just his inner mother hen talking. “I have a room,” he adds. He uses hotel bars for more than the discreet ambiance and elevator music. And—another tidbit he picked up from the sex worker community online—meeting at a bar puts people at ease, makes the whole scenario seem like a random, casual hook-up. “So, shall we go?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, we should. Get going. Let me—lemme just pay.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Sure.” His date shrugs.

“I’m in 304,” Jared says. “See you soon.”

He needs this little bit of time to prepare himself. Sometimes they don’t want to get too intimate, and since he can be sensitive in certain places, he doesn’t mind making sure he’s good and ready by his lonesome. Just in case it’s the kind of night where a rather merciless fuck is the only thing on the table. When kissing might not even be involved. He can never be sure. Sometimes they go slow and the guy wants to take his time with him, hands everywhere, mouth in their wake. Sometimes the man is giving and Jared finds himself face-down and tongue fucked into oblivion, short of breath. Those times are admittedly rare. Sometimes they just talk in the quiet hotel room, hands touching, soft and secret. He can admit: those times are the best. But this is only a job, after all. Like any other he’s had. He has to remind himself or he’ll get carried away with it all. No time for feelings, his aunt used to tell him, just before she locked him in the closet.

This isn’t going to be a quiet night. He already knows. Four fingers of whiskey isn’t a talking night.

Finished with his own fingers, he washes his hands and puts his slacks back on just as a soft knock comes from the hallway. He glances at the mirror; he’s flushed.

“Oh— _um_. Are you okay?” is what his date says when the door swings open.

Jared tugs off his sweater vest. “I’m great,” he says. “Just wanted to make sure I was ready. You know, 'be prepared.' Like a Boy Scout.”

“Right. Jesus.” The guy’s eyes go a little wide and he visibly swallows. “That’s—I was just thinking. That maybe we’d go the other way. Around. If that’s okay. With you?”

Jared feels himself flush a deeper crimson. The trials of being so terribly pale. So that explains the whiskey: bottom panic, like gay panic’s promiscuous sister. This a rare turn of a events indeed. Something about his soft face, maybe, has tended to land him in the opposite configuration since he was fourteen. Even with women.

“That would be...nice,” he settles on. “Would you like to use the restroom?” His tone lands somewhere near blandly polite as he moves toward the bed.

“Thanks. Yeah.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done.” A reassuring smile.

“I mean yeah I'd hope so. You know. Since I already Venmo’d you. And if you were gone, that’d be like stealing right? Ha—” the most awkward laugh. Usually money doesn’t come up. “Uh, anyway.” The guy wipes his palms over his thighs and flees into the bathroom.

After briefly going through his messenger bag, Jared pulls out the lube. No condoms. He always requests a full STD work-up before he’ll do this sort of thing. He knows he’s clean, makes sure of it. He’s heard that all interesting people have human papilloma virus and he’s perfectly content to be as boring as possible, thank you very much. He’s careful, and a good businessperson. Plus, it’s a bad sign when the people who want to fuck you balk at a requested STD scan. In the past that’s when he’s politely declined an intimate transaction, so to speak. Otherwise peace of mind allows him to be game for anything. Even a little light bloodplay if the mood arises.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when the bathroom door opens and spills light into the hotel room. “What can I call you?” the guys asks. He’s taken off his clothes and folded them neatly on the bathroom floor. He only has the hotel bathrobe on: thick white terry cloth. He’s swimming in it. _Just business_ , but Jared’s heart flutters regardless.

“Donald,” he says.

“Oka-aay, Donald. Can you. Will you—” he grips his hands together “—um, clothes on?”

“You want me to keep my clothes on?”

“Please.” A slight stutter. “At least to start.”

“Come here.” He waves the man over, puts his hands on his hips, above the robe. Jared can feel his hip bones beneath the fabric, pronounced and delicate. He would have relished the bruises on his thighs had this gone the other way around. “Have you done this before?”

“Sure, you know. Fingers.” The man waggles his own. “Or whatever. A toy. I’m not,” clears his throat, “gay. You know?”

Jared knows. This isn’t uncommon either. He was aware going into this that this sort of thing would come up, and often. “I understand,” he says, soothing, low. He rubs his thumbs in broad circles over the man’s hips. “What would you like _me_ , to call you?” Usually they just defer to pet names, but tonight feels different.

The man looks away. He bites his lower lip, really digs his teeth in. He’s sort of a redhead, Jared decides. The light gives his curls this lovely auburn cast, burnt copper rusted over.

“Rick—uh, Richard, actually. Is fine.”

“Okay, Richard,” Jared says slowly, surprised. Same name as the Venmo transaction (dollar sign, upside down smiley face). He hadn’t expected a given name. That’s… especially rare for these encounters.

Richard looks away again, and then down at him. “You have really big hands.” He laughs; it sounds nervous, parched. But Jared can see the growing erection beneath his robe.

“I do, but I intend to go slowly with you.” He watches Richard’s eyelids flutter, gauges the mood, and forges onward. “Since you’re so inexperienced. I’ll have to go very slow.”

“Yeah—yes. Please.” Richard shivers just as Jared undoes the bathrobe tie at his front and parts the fabric with both hands.

Sometimes the clothing barely comes off and things progress so rapidly that someone ends up finishing in their pants. Other times he’s the only naked one, and they ask for just his mouth. It’s always different. He tells himself he likes how unpredictable it is.

“So slender,” he says, wrapping a hand around Richard’s middle. He tugs him forward, close enough to get his mouth on Richard’s stomach, the bottom of his ribcage. Loves the way Richard’s hands grip his shoulders to steady himself, the way he holds on. He knows—he _knows_ he shouldn’t allow himself this kind of enjoyment, but every so often someone comes along that makes him doubt that maxim. Maybe, he thinks, he deserves to enjoy his work.

His situation isn’t ideal, but he craves intimacy the way his cousin Alfred craved morphine. This is one way to get it. He figures if he weren’t doing this then all of his assignations would be anonymous anyway. And—he’s accustomed to being used. He doesn’t… mind it.

“Do you, uh. Do this? A lot, I mean?”

Jared reaches into Richard’s robe, behind him, rubs his fingers gentle along the line of his ass cheeks. Warming him. He’s skittish, Jared can feel it. He needs this, otherwise he’ll never relax.

“I do,” says Jared seriously. “It’s my job. Being helpful.”

Richard snorts. “Right, duh.”

“Turn around.”

He stands when Richard complies easily, turning dutifully with only a minor facial twitch before he does. Worried about being vulnerable. Worried about being made to feel vulnerable. But Jared trades in vulnerability, like an asset. He’s made it his most precious commodity, being able both put people at ease and unnerve them, a psychological quagmire in a sweater vest.

“Um,” says Richard, as Jared pushes the robe off his shoulders, then his arms until it pools on the ground at their feet. He leans down and close, puts his mouth right at the tender junction of Richard’s neck and ear. There’s a faint bruise there, maybe someone else’s work. It makes him hard, being this close to a mark of amorous intent.

“Tell me why you need to be fucked,” he says softly. Chooses the swear word because it feels right. And gets nothing but a shiver. “Baby?”

It’s mostly rhetorical, but when Richard tips his head back against his chest, his pupils are dilated and his eyes are very big. Even his mouth looks wanting, wet and red, worried at. The color of cherry chapstick.

“Just need to let go,” he says, half to himself. “I need to— _feel_ something, something different. Like filled up, or.” He laughs, breathy and self-deprecating. “I want to feel useful.”

“Baby—”

“Richard.”

“ _Richard_.” Jared tilts his head, curls in over him. Brings their mouths together so that Richard whines against his lips and presses back against his dick like he really wants it. “I’ll help you feel useful, Richard.”

“Fucking—yes. That’s what I want. Just gimme. Something, alright?”

“So hard for me,” Jared says, swallowing, reaching down to give Richard’s cock a slow, long stroke.

Richard’s hips stutter forward, chasing the attention. He makes this high pitched sound that Jared wants to hear again. Usually, that means he’s doing a good job. He thinks he can take some real pleasure from this encounter, not like some of the other times. He strokes again, twisting his wrist at the head in a way he usually enjoys. He’s adept at this. At most sexual things. Thank necessity, thank the Valley.

“How do you want me? Like, on my hands and knees or? I don’t know—what’s best for the first. Uh, time.”

Jared has to think about it. He’s tall, so usually he ends up on top. He can control things that way, at least a little bit. And it’s easier with a shorter partner. Richard is so, well, little. Jared could probably pick him up, hold him against a wall even. He’s stronger than he looks; he could do it. But he thinks he’d like to see this man’s face, for what they intend to do, and what he’s asked for. It’s not his usual modus operandi; none of this is.

“Lay on the bed,” he says, giving himself time to decide.

He watches Richard listen to him with a funny, covetous feeling in his chest. He doesn’t get to call the shots very often; was not, as far as he knows, put on God’s green earth to do so. He watches Richard settle himself on top of the duvet, gawky but unself-conscious. He still has his long, white socks on, and he pulls his knees up to chest, likely unaware of how it exposes him, like he’s forgotten any sexual experiences he may have before this, what other partners looked like in the same revealing position. Jared’s mouth waters. He wants this—this _person_ , in particular for some reason. He can’t say why, not when there have been so many moments like this with him on the other side of the gaze.

“Would you like me to take my clothes off now?”

“Kay.” Richard nods.

Jared makes quick work of it. Finds himself moving in close, on all fours, like someone flipped a switch inside him that rarely gets toggled, like maybe he blew a fuse and will need to be reset later. He has his hands on Richard’s calves, then his knees, so he can push his legs akimbo and kneel between them. He’s breathing heavily, and his heart is racing. He had no ungodly idea how badly he wanted to be in this exact place. It must show on his face, in his eyes, because Richard says his name.

“Do-donald, are you sure—”

“I’m positive,” he says. “You want this, remember? Can I kiss you?”

Richard lifts his chin up for it, and Jared falls onto him, envelopes him. Traps their erections between their stomachs and uses one hand to hook Richard’s leg around his waist. Sometimes they’re all teeth, but tonight has deep, profound kisses on the menu. Richard whines his given name, and digs his heel into Jared’s lower back. The friction of skin on skin is delicious, more intoxicating than the martini. _Lordy_ , Jared thinks, why can’t it always be like this? What he wouldn’t give—to have every night be like this one.

He kisses his way down Richard’s throat, shimmies down the bed so he can lift the leg around his waist over his shoulder. Kisses the inside of Richard’s thigh, while Richard looks on with a dazed expression. He’s panting. He is clutching the sheets at his sides. Jared wants to tell him to unclench, but he think he’ll have to anyway in a moment.

“Oh— _fuck_. Fuck, okay. This is real,” is what Richard says when Jared reaches for the lube. He almost seems like he wants to scramble backwards up the bed, away. But Jared shushes him, strokes his kneecap.

“Now.” He uncaps the luxurious brand of lubricant he uses. None of that bargain drugstore stuff he kept around when he lived on the streets. “You’ll want to relax. Can you do that for me, baby? Richard? Can you breathe out for me?”

Richard nods. He breathes.

“Count your breaths. Someone has probably taught you. How to do that, right?” He circles Richard’s anus with his finger, then two fingers.

“One,” Richard says, breathing in. “Two.”

“How about we try not out-loud? Hmmm?”

“Fuck you—shit. Sorry. Okay. I’m breathing.”

“Good.” Jared smiles. “When you breathe out next—” he pushes gentle inside with one index finger and Richard nearly chokes on his own tongue, Jared can hear it. “Shhh, shhh. We’re going slow.”

“I’m not—I’m not sure this was a good. Oh shiiiit….”

When Richard remembers how to breathe again Jared slowly pulls out and pushes back in. He knows how this goes. First it burns, then, with the right person, it starts to feel magical. “Relax,” he says. “There we go. There we go.”

When he adds a second finger Richard thrashes around for a moment, head moving on the pillow, heel bouncing on Jared’s back. He twists his wrist, presses his digits apart just slightly, stretching, and Richard lets out a string of expletives so explicit that Jared think he might blush.

“Wow, um. That was a something else.” He laughs a little. “How unexpected.”

“Is this when you fuck me?” Richard grimaces. “Because I think I’m ready. And you should fuck me now. If that’s okay. Now. Is good for that. The fucking, I mean.”

Jared raises both eyebrows. _Holy Moses_ , he thinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m fucking sure,” Richard whines.

He watches Richard’s eyelashes flutter, the way his high cheekbones are flushed scarlet, like a romance novel heroine’s might be. He adjusts them until both of Richard’s legs are on his shoulders, stokes lube over his own erection, and lines himself up to push inside. He can feel Richard’s body tensing and relaxing in anticipation. He’s chewing on his bottom lip and Jared kisses him to stop it.

“You should touch yourself,” he whispers. “It’ll help you relax. Go on. I don’t mind waiting.”

Richard nods and takes himself in hand, closes his eyes like he’s concentrating, and Jared waits for him to exhale before pushing, ever so slightly inside.

“ _Oh_.” Richard's mouth freezes in a pained looking little O, his forehead scrunches up. He’s _sweating_. “Jesus, fuck.”

“Should I stop?” Jared asks, not stopping. One of Richard’s hands grips his shoulder, blunt, chewed-ragged nails digging into his skin. Jared can feel him tugging at himself a bit furiously between them.

“No. Fuck no. Just—do it. Okay? Just fucking do it—” he keens a little. “Fucking go for it.”

Jared does. He feels Richard give around him, still so tight, but once he’s all the way inside, it's like he’s made a place for himself inside Richard’s body, and Richard heaves out a this huge sigh of relief. There are little tear tracks on his cheeks. Jared has to stop himself from telling him that he cried too, the first time, the first many times. Their faces are so close together, their noses brush. For a terrified second he thinks he might cry now. That never happens when they do this. But Richard is still clutching at him, urging him on,  telling him he needs it, and Jared—Jared loses himself.

Neither of them lasts very long.

Richard finishes first, spilling into the tight circle of his fist, and the sound he makes when he does sends Jared off quickly after him, shocked by the wracking shiver that follows his orgasm. He closes his eyes. He breathes in.

“I’m gonna, uh, shower,” Richard says, when they’re lying there together, both sweat soaked. “Do you want to—”

“I’m fine,” Jared cuts him off. “You have the room for the night, if you’d like it.”

Richard makes a noncommittal sound and gingerly— _Oh my_ , Jared thinks, I did that—takes himself to the bathroom.

He packs up his things and tidies the bed while the shower is still going. Redresses after wiping himself off with the discarded robe. It’s not his preference, but usually space is required after this sort of thing. He should really get going. He calls a Lyft before Richard leaves the bathroom.

Typically, his ride doesn't show.

He’s waiting in front of the hotel, Googling things like, _what is the oldest letter on earth_ and _which is the first shipwreck ever found_ to pass the time when Richard pulls up in his Chevy Volt. His hair is still wet. The passenger window rolls down.

“Hey, uh, Jared.” Richard coughs. Won’t look directly at him. “Do you want a ride?”

“That would be very nice,” he says. “Thank you. And thank you, also, for Venmo’ing me for the room.”

“Right, yeah. No problem.”

They travel in silence until Richard plays something from the bluetooth on his phone. Techno. The heavy bass makes Jared’s heartbeat feel even more pronounced.

He tells himself that the next time Richard asks, even if it’s the only _way_ he’ll ask, he won’t do this again. It’s not really a game if it makes your insides hurt a little, he learned that as a kid...but something about Richard makes him take leave of his senses every darn time. And something about Richard keeps him coming back for more, contributing to the disconnect between them, enabling Richard in his own way.

It’s not a game, even if the main rule is “we can’t talk about the game.” It's not a relationship if you're a desperate fool who keeps roleplaying a whore. 

Later, Jared lies awake in his bedroom/the server room and considers his hands. They _are_ big. And they were, to some extent, inside Richard Hendricks. It makes his heart both swell and sink. He'd considered journaling once he got home, but just couldn't capture his usual plucky tone. Instead he'd settled for laying quietly, trying to hang on to just how good it had been. Better than all prior times, like he'd been given a precious gift. He wants to keep it.

He’s lying there, thinking about Richard’s eyes—so very blue—as he'd entered him, when a soft knock at the door steals him away.

“You awake?” comes a reedy voice.

“Richard? Is that you?”

“Yeah. Can I come in?”

“Yes. Uh, please.” Jared sits up and tugs his t-shirt and pajama pants into place. Smooths the sheet under his bum.

“So,” says Richard, closing the door quietly. He fidgets, wrings his hands for a moment. “I gotta tell you, I had a, uh, really _weird_ night.” He makes eye contact.

Eye contact! thinks Jared. “Well, Richard. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Actually, yeah.” Richard’s shoulders relax. “I really would.”

**Author's Note:**

> To note: the Garden Court Hotel is a real hotel in Palo Alto; it doesn't have a bar so the bar described in this story is borrower from The Palace Hotel's aptly named Pied Piper bar, located in San Francisco. 
> 
> You can follow me on [tumblr](http://reserve.tumblr.com) if you want. I post a lot of Star Wars, too. [Here](http://reserve.tumblr.com/post/162655857030/prequel-to-this-of-sorts-i-imagine-that-one-day) is a little clarifying prequel snippet.


End file.
